The Night the Stars Blew Out: A JtHM Fan Fiction
by TheGaGaPrince
Summary: Dear Die-ary, I think I've found love at last. (Better summary after I finish the story! -TheGaGaPrince)
1. Chapter 1 - Upon Waking

_Author's Note_

** Hey guys! I have begun composing a story, a JtHM fan fiction. I hope you enjoy it, and if you have no clue what JtHM is, feel free to read anyway! I've done some explaining, and you'll learn something new! Don't forget to look it up!**

**JtHM stuff is courtesy of Jhonen Vasquez and SLG Publishing. I OWN NOTHING SO FAR.**

**(Warning: Swear words are used.)**

The sky looked stunning that night. A clear black sky, dotted with the twinkling lights of the infinite number of stars. How stunning, he thought. The images of constellations, centaurs and queens and fallen heroes. All but forgotten in this present century. Johnny lowered his eyelids; not to sleep, but to dream all the same. If only he could find a way over the stars, to whatever world lay beyond the velvet blanket of nightfall. He sometimes thought of the small lights as the eyes of some Almighty deity, a God no one had fully considered. One much more powerful than the once he had dreamt about sometime ago...or had that been experienced? No, Johnny thought, a fat, lazy person in the sky could not make nights as beautiful as this...

His eyelids lowered more, and he found himself in a world of bleak darkness, no stars, no moon.

Johnny noticed a wall, only seen because of the crimson blood that stained it and defined a shape. His subconscious self traveled closer to it, and upon further examination, found it was his own blood...

The sudden light sent sharp bursts of irritation through his corneas, and Johnny was startled to find himself awakening. The moon was gone, and the stars had disappeared, replaced by golden sunshine and a blue sky.

Johnny was shaking, and couldn't seem to catch his breath. He had fallen asleep that night, for weeks he had evaded the cold killer, and uncertainty of last night's events filled his chest. He realized he was still outside.

"I must have slept out here all night," Johnny muttered to himself.

He was uneasy as he sat up, and tried to recall what woke him. He remembered his nightmare, the dark room where the wall was splattered with his blood. This detail he found had terrified him most upon waking. The strange thing was, blood didn't bother him. Fuck, he painted a wall with the same liquid every week! But something about this particular dream, the blood, the dark room...

Johnny stood up, and felt his muscles ache and joints pop. His feet felt pinched, and he looked down to see that his shoes were still on his feet, buckles in place, socks in place. He's slept in his shoes, his clothes, even his jacket.

The sensation terrified him. He felt weak, vulnerable, confused. No use wobbling here like a drunk ass, thought Johnny, and he stumbled to his doorway and went back inside his house. As he shut the door behind him, a startling notion came to him. What if people passed my house, and thought I was drunk? He leaned against the rough wooden door, and the splinters scraped and prodded his back. Johnny's house was filthy; cockroach infested, nails sticking out of loose boards, blood all over the walls.

"Nny, you fuck, where where you all night?" the voice of Psychodoughboy scolded. The painted Pillsbury Dough Boy stepped from his shadowy closet.

"Since when have you ever cared about me?!"Johnny shouted at him. "All you ever want me to do is DIE!"

"I want to watch you die!"

"So what? I still HATE YOU!"

Another voice was heard. "Nny, Nny, NNY! You were out all night! Did you kill any cheerleaders?"

Mr. Eff, the other Doughboy loved gore and murder.

Johnny was starting to get irritated. All the Doughboys cared about was death, whether it be his suicide or another murder at his hands.

"Just SHUT THE HELL UP! Johnny screamed, his throat nearly rupturing as his vocal cords were strained painfully. "I JUST FELL ASLEEP OUTSIDE, OKAY?!"

The Styrofoam figures went silent. The sweet absence of their insults was limited, however.

"You actually fell _asleep?_" Mr. Eff scolded. "But sleep is your enemy!"

"I know, I know," Johnny replied, "but it just _happened_, while I was watching the stars, and the next thing I knew-"

"It's okay, Johnny," a voice from the nearby wall said, "Everyone needs some sleep once in a while." Nailbunny. His comforting voice soothed Johnny's mood. Nailbunny. He was Johnny's pet rabbit, which he fed only once, and drove a nail through its abdomen and into the wall. That's were it remained ever since. It happened three years ago. Nailbunny was rational, Nailbunny was hope, Nailbunny was comfort

Nailbunny wanted Johnny's sanity back.

"Sleep," Johnny muttered to himself. "I fell asleep. How did I fall asleep?"

He hated the sensation. He had better things to do than close his eyes and rest. But at least he felt better. Faster, radder, more adequate. (_Hee hee, Adventure Time quote!_)

Psychodoughboy snickered as he shook his head in mock disbelief. "The boy fell _asleep. _I still don't believe it."

He turned, head still shaking, and left for his closet. Mr. Eff followed, glancing back at Johnny and raising a perplexed eyebrow.

Johnny was pissed. First sleep, now his stupid voices mocking him again. Thank god, Reverend Meat wasn't there. _Good, Johnny, good. Give in to your needs. Your emotions. Eat a hamburger. You're too skinny._

Johnny sulked to the torture room under his house.

"I think I'll kill another clown," he said to himself, "They're too creepy and joyful for their own good."


	2. Chapter 2 - Art

For once, Johnny felt tired. His headaches worsened, and the dull pounding in his temples would not falter. There seemed to be this hammer, its head covered in thick leather, was thumping, thumping against the sensory part of his brain. He had felt this sensation before, but the one difference that so puzzled him was the voice he was hearing. It didn't sound like Nailbunny, either of the Doughboys, or even Reverend Meat. No, this voice was deeper than Nailbunny's high pitched noises, less taunting than Mr. Eff, not nearly as melancholy was Psychodoughboy's, and less radio-show-car-salesman-sounding than the reverend's.

This voice sounded like a woman's.

Johnny was puzzled; he had previously discovered that his voices were different perspectives of his personality. Mr. Eff was the murderous, sadistic side of himself, while Psychodoughboy was the depressed and suicidal one. Nailbunny was an imprint of Nny's memories, and Reverend Meat told him of his human qualities, the emotions and such things Johnny avoided. This new voice was...different. It never really spoke, just hummed songs Johnny couldn't attempt to name, but he had vaguely recalled a few from childhood. But where had he picked up the song? The voice did not sound like his mother, or really any of his relatives. He'd heard Devi sing once, but this voice did not belong to her. No, this voice was deeper, sweeter; like thick, sickly-sweet honey. And whenever Johnny heard it sing, it seemed to trickle through his brain like warm, thick honey trickling down his throat on a slow summer afternoon. It made him think of the singers in the old movies, the ones still filmed without color, the serene blacks and whites and grays.

It made him think of his past. It made his memories clearer.

Today, it sang more incomprehensible melodies. It hummed to him as he strolled through the underground levels of his house. It crooned as he wrote in his Die-ary and drew Noodle Boy comics. It didn't leave, and Johnny found himself humming along with it. _Fa, re, so, fa, la, la, fa, so, la, so, so. _The same notes again and again. But the tempo, the rhythm, it changed. From a slow, smooth, mournful funeral tune, to an upbeat, syncopated beat.

_Fa, re, so, fa, la, la, fa, so, la, so, so. _So familiar, yet so unknown. Johnny didn't know. Did he care? No. Eventually, the song seemed to melt into his brain and settle comfortably in his vocal cords.

"What the _hell_ are you singing, boy?"

Mr. Eff, coming back to taunt and poke fun at Johnny.

"I don't know," replied Johnny, "I just...picked it up somewhere, I guess."

"You haven't been out anywhere, in the past three days. You've been singing it since this morning. Don't tell me you 'picked it up somewhere'."

"Where else could I have gotten it? I haven't the slightest clue what the rest even goes like."

"You didn't just come up with it?"

"No. I'm not good with musical scores."

Mr. Eff scrutinized him, and smirked slightly. "I thought not. And people don't just develop some spectacular talent for art."

He left, now (quite horrendously) humming the tune himself.

Art. Now, where had Johnny's old talent run off to? He had been so experienced, so adept, and now his expertise was cut down to a stick figure that screamed and rambled about cheese and hygiene. Gone were the spectacular oil paintings. Vanished were the ink and watercolor sketches. There were days where Johnny couldn't even coax his hand to draw Noodle Boy. A stick figure, when just years ago he was painting lovely ladies and monsters.

Now, there was blood on his hands instead of paint.

Was there any talent in him? Could the entries in his journal be considered poetry? Could Happy Noodle Boys comics be artistic reference books? Could his humming song become a choral masterpiece?

If only his tainted mind would allow it.

_Dear Die-ary, _

_What happened within my hands, and in the depths of my mind, to strip away my artistic ability and reduced it to blood on the wall and a stick figure? I look upon the framed paintings I put up so long ago, and despair. Such creativity, such beauty. Now, gone. What I do now, what I do to paint my wall, how could _that _be considered and art form? Just the result of outer forces imprinting on an already vulnerable, diseased mind. Did my parents do this to me? Did the passersby on the streets that mocked me do this? Did the school-yard bullies do this?_

_I want it back, all of it, my sanity, my talent, EVERYTHING. All taken from me, ripped from my hands and stolen away from me._

_I want a cherry Freezie. Something more chilling and cold than my actions, but sweeter. And now that I think of it, I'm pretty damn hungry._

**Oh, our poor Nny is growing more distant with the world than he already was in the comics. I wonder what this new voice will lead him to...**

**Anyway, time for my author's notes! YAY! Now, that song Nny suffers through, is real. To be exact, "Yayo" by Lana Del Rey. ( watch?v=RZCsTy59fYg ) Also, on my WattPad account, this same story is published, but comes with a picture and video. I go by FlorenceAdriana on that.**

**With Acquaintanceship,**

**TheGaGaPrince**


	3. Chapter 3 - Voices

The mental torment never seemed to cease. The voices, the images, what those voices and images caused Johnny to do.

He tried to escape his insanity, and bolted into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. It creaked on its rusty hinges, and it shut with a bang. Johnny rested his forehead on the rugged wood door, and felt tears trickle down his cheeks and blood seep from his forehead; the door's surface had broken his skin. All he felt for himself was hatred. A serial killer did not deserve love.

Johnny slowly lifted his head from the door, and turned to face the vanity across the room. He could scarcely see his image reflected in the dirty, cracked glass. Pale skin, black hair, skinny build, striped clothes. Why must everyone taunt him when he set foot from his house? Why so, because of the way he looked?

Johnny turned from the door, and hesitantly moped toward the mirror on the vanity. Today he would see what caused people so much cold amusement, what they thought gave them the ability to treat him like a lesser non-human. At first, Johnny found himself staring at the backs of his hands, palms pressed against the moldy wood of the vanity. He slowly raised his head to face the glass reflection. He could see the way the inner corners of his eyebrows were slightly raised, indicating his confused exasperation. His hair needed brushed; it looked stragglier than usual. He'd kept it in that fashionably straggly way, and had the back and sides of his head shaved. Large blue eyes stared back at him, and Johnny noticed how much paler his skin seemed to be; the blood from his cut seemed tot be a brighter red. (See "multimedia" on side for a lovely picture! Look at it, NOW!)

Why did people laugh? He looked fine, not worthy of being bothered by anyone. Johnny felt comfortable like this, wearing his hair like it was, wearing his striped shirts, black shorts, and buckled knee-high boots.

The mirror suddenly looked colder, yet more inviting. Johnny stared into its depths, seeing not just his reflection, but a whole new dimension beyond the glass. An alternate universe where people weren't just sacks of blood and bones fueled by a brain. A place where there would be people that he would like.

His hand hit only glass when he tried to get there.

**Vincent's POV**

Vincent was working late tonight, and to rest his mind was watching the news channel on the box-sized antenna television. Apparently, there had been a decline in the homicide rate, and there had been no missing persons reported. This little city of WhiteClover, thought Vincent, is turning out to be quite violent.

He's recently moved to this city of WhiteClover to continue his prospering career as a psychotherapist. The people were rude and self-centered, the crime rate was high, and fake-Screamo-rock and roll took over the music scene. Perfect for a doctor specializing in his area.

Vincent's eyelids slowly dropped, and he fell asleep in the sofa of the waiting area.

**A few weeks later, and Johnny's POV**

No sleep, no uncertainties.

Ever since his frightening bout of slumber, Johnny had gone all out to avoid it. Caffeine was consumed as often as food and water. Stay awake, he told himself, just stay awake. This pattern, of course, was only clouding Johnny's mind more than it already was, and the humming song eventually became another part of the average day.

Sitting on the edge of his seldom used bed, he pondered over the voice. _Fa, re, so, fa, la, la, fa, so, la, so, so._ Over and over again, stuck in his head like the pop songs played on the radio.

Today the voice spoke in understandable words.

_Yayo, yes you, ya-ay-oh..._

__Yayo? What the hell did "yayo" have to do with Nny's life? Yayo was cocaine, right? Since when did he associate himself with _cocaine_?

His disturbed thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud _crash! _that seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Johnny leaped from his bed, looked hurriedly around his bedroom. Seeing nothing was out of place, he scurried to the kitchen. Through the doorway that led to the kitchen, he could see broken glass, an overturned chair, and scattered stains of blood.

"What the hell?!" he said aloud; then he turned away from the mess in the kitchen and screamed over his shoulder, "Mr. Eff! Did you do this?! I assure you, _you ARE going to clean the damned kitchen!_"

No answer.

"Mr. Eff?" Johnny asked. No answer. And none from Nailbunny and Company.

He heard more noises in the kitchen, unknown knockings and rumblings. (Keep 'em hidden, Nny! No one suspects it's you, ya crazy mon! -TheGaGaPrince)

"The hell-"

Johnny cautiously shuffled across the kitchen tiles, wet crimson in sharp contrast against cold marble white. Broken glass soon came into play, and he hopped about the tiles as not to have to pull the shards out of the soles of his knee-high, buckled leather boots. The window, Nny observed, had been broken into by someone outside his house. Who would want to pay him a visit at this late hour or 4 o'clock in the morning?

Perhaps a family member of one of his victims, one as mentally unstable as himself, wanted to extract revenge for this loss. Perfect timing, Johnny was weaponless. But the man was intelligent and knew anatomy, and could jerk shoulders clean out of their sockets with just a turn of the joint. He decided to make his presence known to the possible intruder.

"Whoever's lurking in MY fucking house, is going to have their arms pulled off and stuck into their eye sockets, and then I'll-"

A rustling was heard from a cabinet a few feet to his left. The intruder must be in the knife cabinet; Johnny heard metallic clinking and someone bumping against the wood. Muffled words were barely audible, but still present. Sounded like someone was cursing the cabinet. Well. at least Johnny felt more prepared...

But the sudden outward motion of the cabinet door, and the body falling out still sent a jolt of surprise through his skinny body.

The person tumbled onto the floor and the scattered glass on it. It jerked its head off the surface, and huffily surveyed the surrounding area. Johnny could now tell the trespasser was a woman. Her hair-a curly, messy ocean of differing shades of yellow and blond-covered her face as she stared at her knees.

"Dammit, fucking glass cut up my knees..."

Her voice, just like the voice that sang about cocaine... Just as deep, just as sweet, just like thick honey...

The stranger's head snapped up to stare, frustrated, at Johnny's face.

"Eh? Why are you staring at me?"

Johnny was rather taken aback. "_Why _was _I _staring at _you_?" He stressed each italicized word.

"Of course. I live here, you know." The lady arrogantly flipped her hair with a quick movement of her head, and more of her hair was tossed from her face.

Johnny was, to put it simply, pissed. He attempted to stay at least a tiny bit calm, "No, this is _my _house. I've lived here, um, five years I believe. Give or take a year, I suppose. You, on the other hand, have been hiding in my cabinet since yesterday, at the most. Madam, I kindly ask you to _leave_."

"No."

To keep it simple, this pissed Johnny off even more. "BITCH, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE BEFORE I SHOVE A KNIFE UP YOUR-"

With a casual flick of her hand, she quieted Johnny's obscene ranting. "Boy, you've yet to understand this predicament," she growled. "I've been here since before you wound up in this dump."

"Why is it that I've only heard you for about three weeks?' Johnny's early angry ranting was becoming less furious, and more curious. (Hee hee, I rhymed!)

"Maybe I'm shy. Or maybe I just don't like you."

Johnny didn't like this lady, if she could be referred to something formal like that. Add to the fact she'd stumped him with her retorting. No one did that to him. No one _could _do that to him. And yet here she was, playing with her ugly hair, and now she was giggling at his facial expression; a blend of befuddlement and annoyance.

"Go on, lovely," she sneered at him, a sadistic smile playing on her red-painted lips. "Weren't you saying something?"

He needed to say something to her, anything to stop her grinning.

"I'd like to know where you came from, my fair lady. And why you've been stuck in that cabinet this whole time. It's full of knives, you know."

This time, a smile formed on Johnny's lips, and the stranger scowled. "You're a little bastard, you know that?"

The smile on Johnny's face only grew wider. He'd got her this time! "Thanks for the _lovely _compliment. I think you're a bitch."

"Shut up! Do you still want to know why I've been stuck in this shit-hole of a house?"

"Go on, then. Tell me a story!"

She paused, and straightened her posture.

"Do you still remember the first person you ever murdered?"

**Ah, an abrupt ending to a chapter. I hope all of your intestines are oozing with suspence! -TheGaGaPrince**


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